Bellegarde raised his hand to the back of his head and rubbed his hair quickly up and down, thrusting out the tip of his tongue as he did so. “Why, you are not noble, for instance,” he said.
“The devil I am not!” exclaimed Newman.
“Oh,” said Bellegarde a little more seriously, “I did not know you had a title.”
“A title? What do you mean by a title?” asked Newman. “A count, a duke, a marquis? I don’t know anything about that, I don’t know who is and who is not. But I say I am noble. I don’t exactly know what you mean by it, but it’s a fine word and a fine idea; I put in a claim to it.”
“But what have you to show, my dear fellow, what proofs?”
“Anything you please! But you don’t suppose I am going to undertake to prove that I am noble. It is for you to prove the contrary.”
“That’s easily done. You have manufactured wash-tubs.”
Newman stared a moment. “Therefore I am not noble? I don’t see it. Tell me something I have not done—something I cannot do.”
“You cannot marry a woman like Madame de Cintré for the asking.”
“I believe you mean,” said Newman slowly, “that I am not good enough.”